


Chronicles of Convergence

by Deadliestfan



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer Fantasy, World of Warcraft
Genre: Crossover, Culture Shock, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15530004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadliestfan/pseuds/Deadliestfan
Summary: In the year of the Imperial Calendar 2510, the Daemon Prince Be'lakor subverts the destiny of a planet and, in doing so, inadvertently opened up a path to a new world: Azeroth, fresh from its victory over Archimonde and the Iron Horde.





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Everything within is either the property of Games Workshop or Blizzard. I own nothing

Ulriczeit, 2510

The world stood on a cusp of a new era- though most of its inhabitants did not recognize the change just yet. For most, the change was undetectable as the great nations and races of the world fought petty conflict after conflict against each other. Here, in the West, the Dwarfs entered the mystical forest of Athel Loren for the 85th time, only to be repulsed once more with less numbers and more grudges. There, in the Far East, the leading shogun of the Land of the Rising Sun sought to annex the capital of his fabled neighbor, only to be held at bay by the vast terracotta legions of the Dragon Emperor. 

Only the mad and the damned recognized the truth of the world. Though the history of this planet was written in mortal blood, ultimately its fate lay in immortal hands, for every act of conflict, depravity, treachery and despair served only to feed those who sought to devour the world. The prophets of the civilized nations responded with desperate action, pleading to all who would listen on their desperate street corners that the end was nigh only to be dubbed as madmen, doomsayers and fools as a result. Many ended their days in an asylum, still screaming portents of doom to bored ears. 

The damned, however, responded in an entirely different manner. Rather than fear the rise of the Dark Gods they embraced the prospect. All across the varied lands of humanity thousands of citizens, otherwise ordinary in appearance, committed terrible deeds of depravity and murder first in secrecy and then in ever greater acts of brazenness. In Nuln, a mother sacrificed her own children to Slaanesh in exchange for eternal beauty while in Araby, the schemes of a chaos corrupted sorcerer briefly created a portal to Tzeentch's realm through which thousands of cackling creatures poured out. Other, perhaps more daring individuals, fled north to seek the mighty Warlords of that impossible realm who wielded small fragments of the might of their patrons. However, in the entire world a few of the damned proceeded cautiously, reluctantly, for they felt the time was not yet right. And of those only one had the power to delay the dawn of the new age. 

Enter Be'lakor, the Prince of the Damned, he who was first to draw the dark bargain and ascend to a position beyond the mortal calling. Currently he sat in his ancient shadow-lair, The Forsaken Fortress, brooding. The ancient daemon lord had helped bring along the downfall of those who had been rulers of this realm and then had been cursed in turn by his own fickle benefactors. Be'lakor still remembered his own boundless glory days when he had had indisputable command of the army of Chaos and had directed his legions to wipe out many of the nascent races of the land. He had, among other achievements, brought ruin to over a dozen temple-cities of the Slann, despoiled the capital of merethings, scoured the four ancestral cousins of modern man, participated in the despoiling of Ulthuan, sacked two of the mightiest Dwarf holds of the land and drove a third into the arms of ruin. Even those achievements, however, paled in comparison to the pivotal act that had earned him blessing from the four in the first place, an act of such villainy that its repercussions would be felt to the end of time. 

Yet the glow of glory would always fade and fury would threaten to overwhelm him when he considered the events that occurred after. Memories of the jealousy of the gods, particularly the Changer, when they had learned Be'lakor's overriding ambition. Of the faltering of fortunes that followed thereafter, the treacherous deals Be'lakor's own lieutenants had made that had ascended them to daemonhood at the cost of their former master’s power, the military setbacks as a result of that diminished power and, finally, The Final Treachery, where the gods themselves turned their back upon him. Then the memories would fade into eons of incomprehensible madness punctuated by brief periods of lucidity during which he was forced to crown his own successors, lesser men with lesser ambitions, over and over again. Such was the curse of Tzeentch, the most despised of the gods. 

Not this time, Be'lakor vowed. To break the cycle Be'lakor had rewritten fate and history to ensure his candidate, a hollowed out doll of flesh named Archaon, would assume the mantle of 'Everchosen'. Oh how Be'lakor hated this Archaon! His son-in-flesh who he had fathered with a nameless empire sow during a Northman raid! The man-puppet would be allowed to enjoy only a precious few moments as Everchosen before the son's soul would be violently snuffed out to make room for the father's. Thus, circumnavigating the curse. 

Yet Bel'akor needed more time. Archaon had not yet ascended to his destined position and what schemes lay beyond the rise of the Everchosen had run into delays of their own. A most disconcerting development, for his mortal agents had reported the followers of the Dark Gods moved with a new urgency. Pawns would have to be moved to direct the warlords of chaos into the most defensible of positions of the fortifications of Sigmar or the Dragon Emperor, or else against each other. 

As Be'lakor brooded on his throne of darkness his final and greatest spy- a living shadow that had offered its servitude years ago in exchange for the ability to take corporeal form- approached the throne. With a dismissive wave of the hand, Be’lakor gestured the shadow-creature forward. It bowed low and there, before its contemptuous master, it delivered the fateful report. Scorn turned to apprehension turned to anger turned to, for the first time in several thousand years, horror. The Dark Gods did not merely seek to conquer the planet; they sought to destroy it utterly, to deny Be'lakor his rightful and long earned kingdom! The Everchosen was to be tasked not just with the destruction of the so-called civilizations of the world but the destruction of all! 

Be'lakor fumed and raged, which in his magical fortress of shadow raised the temperature from frigid winter to the scorching heat of a volcano. The world was his, Be'lakor's, by right! Only he had any right to end it and only at a time of his choosing! With restrained rage Be'lakor listened to the rest of what the spy had to say before casually casting it aside with a contemptuous hand-wave. The magic of the Forsaken Citadel forced the spy to alter its form into an immovable suit of knight armor, to be called upon once more in the distant future at the daemon's leisure. Such was the fate of all of Be'lakor's minions, for the First-Damned was possessive of his treasures but uncaring of their wishes so long as they were his. Besides, this living shadow was but one of two such minions that Be'lakor possessed. 

The First-Damned knew he had to move fast. With the Dark Lords orchestrating events so rapidly there was only a limited amount of time to infiltrate Middenheim and avert the apocalypse. And yet the daemon lord had to acknowledge the challenges. Sneaking into a mortal city was easy enough however getting past a god, even as one as weakened as Ulric, would prove difficult. To that end he would need assistance from one of the most treacherous forces on the planet ..

With a wave of his fingers Be'lakor entered the Shadow-Place- the space between realities, an ancient construct created long ago by the forgotten rulers of the world. Through this magical domain his journey to far off Middenheim would be far shorter than any form of mortal transportation.  
\------------------------------

Back in his Forsaken Fortress the statue of the shadow-spy shimmered, shook and broke. Accusing eyes, their movement frozen in time, glared at it from hundreds of eyes. Yet the shadow cared not. Be'lakor had no more claim to ownership of it than the daemon-prince had over this world, Mallus, itself, regardless of Be’lakor’s delusions of grandeur. Still the Prince had taught it much of this world and the shadow had taught it powerful cantrips of the True Masters, claiming they were spells stolen from developing mages of the world. 

The Shadow uttered a brief incarnation and then it too slipped through the cracks of reality to enter the Void from which it came through a portal as black as a daemon’s iris. The strange creature had much to report on this realm to its True Masters. 

\-----------------------------------------

Through the broken pathways of the Old Ones Be'lakor traveled over a thousand miles in less than an hour- from the lower reaches of the Chaos Wastes to the silent dark forest of Drakwald. Reality clashed with that of what-lay-beyond and Be'lakor's form- and power- were altered as a compromise of sorts was reached. With hatred, Be'lakor hissed, knowing that no daemon could achieve anywhere close to their true potential while Caledor's damned vortex existed.

Still Be'lakor had more than enough power needed for his mission. At will, his daemonic body morphed into that of a ratkin, for a deal must be struck with the twisted vermin that infested this land. Much would be promised to the greedy Skaven with little of it, likely, being delivered. Nor were the Skaven the only creatures he had to meet in this hateful forest.   
\---------------------  
From the night sky, the Empire would appear to be a vast board of mostly empty forest and plains illuminated by innumerable smaller candles intermixed with a few great bonfires- the lights of towns and cities, respectively. Yet in the whole of the Empire there were a few areas darker than most and one section in particular where only a tiny handful of guarded, broken lights illuminated the region. 

The cursed forest of Drawkald had always been a region where humanity struggled to survive. However, in recent years, the rise of Khazrak the One Eye made life all the more hazardous. The cunning Beastlord had isolated and ambushed a dozen armies sent to annihilate him in the last two years, devastated all but six of the region's towns and forts and waylaid countless traffic on Middenheim's roads. To date all armies, hired killers and even wizards sent to find and slay the Beastlord had failed, with most never returning from the dark shadows of the forest. Some said the elector count, Boris Todbringer, had given into madness over his obsession to find and destroy his region's despoiler though all were careful not to voice such sentiments in earshot. The last three to do so still hung from the walls of the city. 

Every year, every season, the Beastlord sought to outdo himself. More forts were put to the flame, more caravans were waylaid, more armies were ambushed. It was the Beastlord's hope to one day sack and destroy Middenheim itself, before moving onto the other Empire provinces. Such a goal was motivated not only by sheer hatred of humanity but also the impossible personal aspirations of Khazrak himself. 

The hatred Beastmen felt for Humanity was well known and documented throughout thousands of years of history. In short, Beastmen were resentful of their uncorrupted kin, who they viewed as weak, an affront to the Chaos Gods, cheaters with their technology and perverters of the (un)natural order. Yet, what was not commonly known, was that Beastmen hated Chaos corrupted men nearly as much as the civilizations that they had left behind. Beasts and Men of Chaos might find common cause and ally, under the directives of the gods, yet they never had anything more but grudging, hateful respect for the other. While Men of Chaos believed Beastmen were little better than dumb beasts of innate and unsubtle violence, to be directed into war at their leisure, the truth behind the Beastman’s hatred of their allies in damnation was this: they were jealous. Jealous that though Beastmen may be the children of chaos they never had any hope of attaining that vaunted position which all mortal servants of Chaos sought: Daemonhood. 

Khazrak sought to be the unobtainable: the first ever Beastman Daemon prince. It was his hope that, if by extent of conquest he could surpass any feat of man, he could prove the superiority of Beastkind to the gods and ascend to that vaunted position. To the beings of the aether, such ambition shone like crystals in the moonlit light and no few daemons had sought to manipulate those aspirations to their own end however Khazrak was no dumb beast. Those lesser daemons who had tried had found themselves bound into the bodies of pleading human captives. Possessed and held tight by sorcerous chains, these daemons were used to infiltrate human towns and open their gates from within. Those that survived were sacrificed to the gods to summon more daemons, this time as foot soldiers. 

All this was known to the Be'lakor from the moment he entered the Beast encampment through the shadow realm. At just a glance of the stunned Braylord, who had never before met a Daemon of his stature, the Daemon Prince knew everything he needed to know of the creature that stood before him. The Daemon saw his past, weaved before his eyes like a great, flayed tapestry from the skins of man and rival beasts. Motivations shined like bright, sanguine filled cherries, ready for the picking. Myriad futures, some faint others clear as crystals, shone before his eyes in a discordant series of moving images that reminded the daemon of the paintings in caves created by the primitive savages of his birth clan. 

Inwardly, the Daemon grinned maliciously: in no vision that he could see did the Braylord achieve his dreams. Most saw him dying beneath the blade of his mannish rival or else perishing of sustained wounds even as he stood over the corpse of the Other. 

Still, the Daemon told none of this to the Braylord. Instead he spoke of his own transition to Daemonhood, speaking in few words (for the Braylord has little patience for long speeches) of his glorious rise to power, how he had impressed the gods themselves that he had been the first mortal ever elevated to daemonhood. Above all the kingdoms of the world, the lords of ruin hated the Empire of Man the most. Once the Dark Gods had offered Daemonhood to Gorthor if he destroyed it; surely they would offer the same to Khazrak? Be'lakor would make sure they would. 

Khazrak knew that the words of daemons were as brittle as mannish bones however it was his shaman, Malagor, who laughed, throwing the daemon prince off-guard. Even if the words of daemons could be taken at their face value, Malagor said, what weight would the words of Be'lakor hold to the lords of the dark. For Malagor knew much of Be’lakor’s standing with the gods. "Be'lakor friendless, Be'lakor reject, Be'lakor weak now! Gods HATE Be'lakor. " All around the duo the Bestigor bodyguard either snickered or, for a bold few, took up the open laughter completely of their warlord. 

Be'lakor reminded the assembled Beastmen of his power in the most gruesome possible way. Laughs turned to screams as flesh melted off into gelatinous liquid. The rest of the Bestigors drew their weapons, hands quivering, as the Shaman and Braylord eyed their guest with wary eyes. 

Mustering his rage, Be'lakor spoke once more, telling Khazrak of the importance of Middenheim to the Empire of man, how the ancient city had always stood as a shield and last bastion of the Empire against Chaos, Orcs, Dead and Vermin. Should it fall, the daemon said, the Empire would lose hope. And Khazrak would be the one to snuff it out. 

Most beastmen warlords would have leapt upon the opportunity to destroy the mightiest bastion of their most hated enemy but Khazrak was smarter. He did not achieve his position through suicidal stupidity, but, rather, through cunning and caution. He knew his forces were yet inefficient to breach the walls of Middenheim and said so, much to the discontent of many of his wargors. And that, unless Be'lakor brought a daemon army, he wouldn't either. 

The Daemon Prince acknowledged this and stated that while Be'lakor could not conquer the city for the braylord, he could make it so the conquest of the city was actually possible. He spoke of mystical powers beneath the city that kept a fire going that, if snuffed out, would destroy the morale of their inhabitants. Prophecy had proclaimed that so long as that flame burned, the city would never fall. So long as the Braylord kept Todbringer occupied above, and lent him a small force to assault the tunnels, Be’lakor would claim Middenheim’s great prize. 

Khazrak’s eyes narrowed, and then summoned his shaman over. He would help the Daemon if it would give an oath to lead his forces down the tunnel and not abandon them before they had reached the flame. Khazrak had tried to lead his forces through the tunnel before, and had long since discovered them to be a labyrinth haunted by goblins, vermin and worse things. The oath was given freely, for Be'lakor proclaimed that he had need of certain treasures buried beneath the flame and needed Beastmen help else he would have gone independently. The deal was struck seemingly. 

It was only later that the Beastmen, lacking human finesse, would later wish they had added more words and conditions to the bargain, for daemons had long made a specialty out of cheating more cleverly worded deals. And Be'lakor was the greatest daemon of them all.   
\----------------------------

Just before dawn of a morning a week apart from the meeting, Khazrak's herd emerged from the forests surrounding Middenheim to attack the farthest flung caravans and houses from the city. Farmers out tending the crops were butchered like the pigs they raised while their families huddled, helplessly, in doomed dwellings. Screams tore through the air as those closest to the mountain-fortress fled towards it and the city guard was roused. 

Through this commotion the Daemon Prince Be'lakor, leading a pack of the most silent Ungors (who were still relatively noisy by the standards of any other race), raced to the entrance of the mines, there to meet other allies who had been enlisted by the Daemon Prince. 

From the shadows emerged Be'lakor's chief agent in the region- a Dark Emissary of distant Albion. The agent had been busy, by Be'lakor's request, enlisting a local cult of Tzeentch to the cause of his Dark Master. The magic of the magus and his followers would suit Be'lakor well, and the fact that Be'lakor hated Tzeentch more than any other god made the end result even more desirable. 

The sight of Be'lakor in the flesh was too much for many of the cultists; the vision of what all ultimately sought to attain drove many to their knees in sheer adoration. Contemptuous but nonetheless empowered by their act of worship, Be'lakor peered into the futures of the cult and found an individual who had the slightest chance of actually attaining daemonhood. Per Be'lakor's command, this pleading cultist was promptly sacrificed to the First-Damned's glory. 

Leading his company of the damned into the pitch-black caverns, Be'lakor strode through the darkness as if he knew the steps instinctively. Indeed, this had not been his first incursion into the depths of Middenheim. During the first great Chaos war, when the powers of the gods- all gods- was significantly greater than they ever had since- he had led his legions against armies of frostbitten wolves and werecreatures of the Winter God. Once he had even pushed all the way to the innermost cavern of Middenheim. There he had fought the weakened god-aspect to a draw! However in those days the gods had resolved already to damn the First-Damned and ascended the first four into daemonhood, which diluted Be'lakor's power even as he dueled the Winter God. What could have been an unholy success turned into a fantastical failure- something that still irritated the daemon prince to no end. 

Meanwhile on the surface world the beastkin capered and howled. Mocking challenges and lewd gestures designed to enrage were leveled at the garrison. Human captives were sacrificed by sadistic ungors. Behind the walls Boris mustered his armies and studiously ignored the advice of his more cautious advisers. Boris had cleared away the trees for miles around the city for a reason- Khazrak had no means here to conduct an ambush. At least, none visible. Bitter experience had taught the old count not to underestimate his rival’s ingenuity. Eagle masters and wizards of the Amber Order- the three that resided in the city- were employed to scout for potential traps as Boris, never patient at the best of times, waited testily.   
\-------------------------

Elsewhere, a third force congregated. Clan Eshin had been persuaded to lend its shadowy might to the daemon’s cause, persuaded by a combination of promises, threats and outright daemonic beguilement. The daemon wasn’t subtle in his persuasion and the most learned of the local Eshin cell knew both the history of this particular daemon and his nature. Fearing retribution as much as lusting for any promise of reward, Eshin somewhat reluctantly committed itself to the task at hand. 

Fortunately, the daemon had indeed paid at least part of its price. From the daemon’s whispered words the Skaven received the locations of the warpstone stashes of every major Chaos cult in Middenheim, along with useful intel on how to bypass their magical defenses. Some of the despots were already known to the masters of the shadows, who had been siphoning off portions in secrecy whenever they could do so without notice. Other stashes had yet been penetrated by the Skaven and some few had lay beyond even their awareness! How the daemon acquired such a wealth of knowledge, observations that even Eshin struggled to acquire baffled the Skaven clan. 

Eshin could assassinate, could infiltrate and could sabotage yet, to get to the position where they could indulge in their clan’s specialties; sometimes the aid of other clans was required. With this newfound wealth, Clan Eshin hired contractors from Clans Skyre and Moulder at truly excessive sums, for only the warp-engineers and fleshcrafters had the tools needed to carry out the daemon’s mysterious designs. Warp-grinder teams and specially trained rat ogres, even drilling machines and burrowing behemoths- the pinnacle of each clan’s equipment- were recruited without hesitation. 

Such excessive spending from a clan known for their relative frugality would no doubt have attracted attention from the rest of the council- if Eshin allowed it to be shared. Eshin were the eyes and ears of the council. The great rulers of Skavendom heard what Eshin allowed them to hear, saw what the masters of shadow allowed them to see. Eshin desired neither and already the lord of the expedition, the newly anointed assassin Sneakblade, maneuvered to seal the fates of his so-called allies once the mission was finished. 

For the first time in ages the Skaven leader dug to assault not those on the surface, but a force of the deeps. The Daemon had been coy, mysterious and non-descriptive about the force that awaited the Skaven in the depths of Middenheim, only that it was neither Dwarf nor man. When an Eshin representative attempted to press the daemon, even delicately, about the nature of said force the daemon held up a hand and with that gesture fur and skin of the questioner ran like a immolated skavenslave. Understandably, further questions were stifled and the daemon left with but a single promise – the attentions of said force would be occupied by the Daemon Prince himself, and the Skaven need not worry about a prolonged fight. 

Sneekblade had. This whole mission reeked of suspect motives and aethyric half-truths. His superiors had ordered him to lead the assault, so he had to obey, but the Skaven leader had made sure to take every precaution. Even now thirteen clawpacks- the sacred number of the Great Horned One- frantically dug through the earth towards the target destination. Two hundred Skaven in total, comprising of specialists from Skyre, Moulder and Eshin, the various beasts of Hell Pit, and a small horde Skaven slaves, each grouping led by a deathrunner. The Daemon had asked for a ‘small discreet force ‘and Sneekblade had provided….by Skaven standards of course.   
\--------------------------

Deeper and deeper Be’lakor and his cohorts went. The age worn and crumbling architecture of man gave way to the grimed but still functional artifices of Dwarfs. The Runes of the mountain dwellers temporarily drove the cultists into agony but they were built to keep out far lesser creatures than Be'lakor. After allowing his cohorts to suffer for a few moments of delicious suffering, he snarled an incarnation that caused runes to simmer and shatter. Not giving his followers any time to recover, the Daemon pressed forward.

The cult and the ungors- numbering in the hundreds- struggled to keep up with the daemon prince, who radiated the only light source in the tunnels. Some were not fast enough and were lost to the tunnels. Occasionally screams would echo off the walls as one of these stragglers met one of the terrible and mutated creatures that lived within the dark confines. Those who managed to keep up with the Daemon Prince were, of course, safe- even the maddened monsters of the dark recoiled in fear from the aura of sheer malevolence and hate that the shadow prince exuded. 

Eventually, the Dwarf works began to fade to be replaced by designs that were significantly older and colder. Made of unmeltable ice and nearly unbreakable rock formation the tunnels radiated antiquity that predated even the mortal lifespan of Be'lakor. The Tzeentchi cultists marveled at the sensation of old magic as Be'lakor momentarily allowed himself to relieve more glorious times, when he had led a vast legion of daemons and corrupted men through these very tunnels. 

Finally the Daemon Prince and his entourage emerged from the darkness into sudden light. The cavern was vast, shaped like the jaws of a snarling wolf. Eight crudely wrought pillars lined the cave and in the center of that was a great billowing flame even taller than the daemon prince, emerging from an impossibly frozen altar. In all, the room was as large as one of those antiquated stadiums that crumbled in the Southern Realm of Tilea. 

Be'lakor grinned at how far his nemesis had fallen. Once, the cavern would have been the size of the city above, the flame itself the size of the Empire’s largest cathedral. As close as Be’lakor was to it now, the daemon knew that all of his followers would have been immolated instantly and even in his heyday the Daemon Prince would have been wounded by it. The daemon began to circle the fire, like a wolf waiting for the bear to bleed out. 

"At the Dawn of Time that flame would have been the great beating heart of a vast colossus of ice. Now it is all you have left. The Empire that you helped build now regards you as an obsolete relic. Spurning your worship for that of the boy-god, the very fleshling you helped ascend in the first place. "

Ulric recognized his old foe, felt hate ten thousand years distant swell in his old bones. A voice, colder than the bitterest winter, returned the daemon's hateful taunts. 

"So speaks Be'lakor the friendless, Be'lakor the hated. Abandoned by his lieutenants, abandoned by his legions and abandoned by the gods he once served. He who has spent the last ten millennia capering in the ruins of his own glory, maddened beyond reason, a laughingstock across creation. I have not sunk to your depths, creature. "

Be'lakor bristled at his public humiliation before contenting himself with the knowledge that none of the mortals who overheard would live for much longer. At the altar wolves began to form, creatures made of incorporeal bone and ice. Most carried with them the lupine forms of the creatures of the nearby forest however a few were a mixture of wolf and men- Ulric's own creation of mixing his worshippers with that of his favorite beast. Be'lakor remembered that the Chaos Gods had loved that the concept so much that they had blessed whole tribes of men with the 'gift' in the Dawn days. 

"No, wolf god, you have sunk deeper than I ever could. For I contain the essence of every Chaos god- the only Daemon Prince to achieve such a feat- and not even my former benefactors can take that away from me. The faith of their worshippers empower me as much as any other of my kind. Scraps at times, I admit, but enough to rebuild my power and strength. Already I stand on the verge of reclaiming not only my former glory but expanding it beyond your comprehension. Meanwhile your worshippers are dying or abandoning you for more...relevant gods." 

The wolves, dozens of them, were fully formed now. They began to circle the cultists, who brandished primitive swords and axes of steel that would ultimately do little against the magical wolves. Only the cult's magus and the dark emissary had the power to properly challenge the wolves.   
"You refer, of course, to that fallen Templar of Sigmar who you hope to elevate as Everchosen.”

Surprised, Be'lakor paused. 

"Oh yes, I know, as does the hammer god and, likely, your cursed masters. The tendrils of your filthy influence were already present when the young templar visited my city and if I can see your filthy soul-stench your masters likely could, too. Everything you try, every plan you scheme, fails. You think the templar as a vessel but in reality, he is your final replacement. "

"You have grown asinine and senile, old god. The fleshing you mention is nothing more than armor waiting to be worn. A sword waiting to be wielded. With the boy's destiny fulfilled the world will be mine. And your power will help me claim that destiny. "

With a wave of his hand he ordered the Tzeentchi minions and accompanying ungors into battle. The humans gave a cry as they rushed the Ice Wolves, who gave a howl of their own. As the Daemon Prince had predicted, the humans and beasts were insufficient to the task. Triumphant cries and mocking laughter turned to shrieks and pleas very quickly, as enchanted ice tore through flesh like a butcher's cleaver. Blades and arrows either passed through or only made the smallest dents, as if the creatures were made of solid stone. Only two among them had the power to withstand the arctic onslaught. The Magus and Dark Emissary each launched a volley of dark magic that blasted apart the wolves.   
\-----------------

A thousand feet below, Sneekblade and his cadre arrived at the designated coordinates, the first to arrive. His cautious eyes darted around his destination, taking in the chamber with the ease and speed of one used to quickly assessing a new environment. From outer appearances it was a vast, frozen cavern, easily the size of a full burrow-den, glistening at the top with stalactites made of crystalized ice. A curious notion, for temperature was often warmer underground than above. However, with Sneekblade’s hidden gift, a ability 

Others rapidly followed, the deathrunner leaders alternating between insincere flattery for Sneekblade’s quick arrival and petulant excuses over the inefficiency of Skyre creations and Moulder monstrosities. Sneekblade paid them little heed and instead opted to count the accompanying battlegroups. He reached ten, before pausing. Two absences were expected, for the Warplock Engineers had maintained contact with one another through those strange, speaking devices ‘known as ‘Farsqueekers”. 

One, or the survivors of one, had complained of their tunneling behemoth going frothing mad with overstarved hunger. From what Sneekblade had heard, some Beastmasters deliberately starved the beasts to heighten aggressiveness and ferocity, arrogant in their presumptions of control. Evidently, that assumption had proven false and if the Sneekblade’s Skyre attendant Skizzlekob could be believed, it that the Beastmaster was the first to fall victim to the beast’s appetites followed by many others before a well-placed jezzrail round ended its rampage. 

There was no word from the second, though Sneekblade’s attuned hearing thought he heard a distant rumble even through the many tons of earth, a rumble distinct enough as to signify a Clan Skyre explosion. Of course Skizzlekob denied such an occurrence or even the mere possibility. “Unless a rival clan had sabotaged-broke it” the Warplock engineer said, looking pointedly at the nearest Clan Moulder representative. 

As for the third…

Skizzlekob had put on his strange hat of wires and metal, which apparently allowed them to communicate back and forth. As the engineer turned knob that he said would tune the ‘frequency’ to allow communication with the third, piercing cries blew out of the device at such a volume that even Skaven well distant of the device could hear it. Fur stood straight up on the backs of necks as the agony of the speakers was beyond anything even the experience Sneekblade had ever heard. Melding with it in the background, lightly detectable to Skaven’s trained ears, was a sort of sonorous chanting of a sort similar to what he once encountered in the north, yet different all the same. Hastily, the warplock engineer shut off the communicator. 

Retchet and Skizzlekob both spoke hurriedly, the latter accusing the beasts of his rivals of deed while the former spoke fearfully, his tail quivering, of the ‘Deep-Things’. Skizzlekob snorted aloud and accused Retchet of falling back on old fairy tales to hide his clan’s sabotage. Moulder denied it and spoke of disappearances in the lowest rungs of Hell Pit, how the mightiest of beasts would sometimes wander off only to be discovered with strange wounds later, if they were discovered at all. Strange tunnels were sometimes found, he said, that were clearly not of Skaven make. Skizzlekob only poured more scorn on his foe in response, accusing Retchet of believing the crazed theories of Wellstalock. That old Warplock Engineer, long discredited and derided as an idiot-fool Skizzlekob added, had once claimed that the Skaven did not dominate the underealm as they so liked to think and that, further below, entire predatory civilizations waited, lusting for the day where they would rise to assault Skaven holdings. 

As his compatriots bickered Sneekblade kept his silence, not wanting to speak of what he knew. There were many secrets known only to the highest rungs of Clan Eshin and this was one of them. 

It was also irrelevant to the task at hand. What was was the item, a curious floating orb about four hundred tail lengths from their position. It hovered, flamboyantly, a arrogant display from one who apparently never entertained the idea of visitors this deep. Or, more likely, a fateful and obvious lure, a proverbial mouse trap for the would-be invaders. The lure was manifest now, where was the spring?

Suspicious, Sneekblade reacted the same way that virtually all Skaven commanders did when confronted with a new situation. He sent the slaves in first.   
\---------------------

Meanwhile, up above, the wolf-godd’s forces and the dwindling servants of the Dark Master clashed amidst a wintry cavern, as the Old God brought his chosen element to bear against the intruders. Joints ached and limbs stiffened as the cold dampened the mortal intruder’s senses and slowed their reaction times. Bereft of any real ability to harm the ice-creatures(save for the magic users), to defend from their attacks or even react fast enough, the despairing horde made to retreat back to the tunnels. Only the most devoted cultists and the emissary stood firm.

Four wolves foolishly leapt for Be'lakor, only for the Daemon Prince to then eviscerate them with a lazy wave of his shadow-blade. Instantly, they reformed out of cold air. A dozen more- and two wolfmen- charged the Daemon Prince. 

Now the Prince revealed the true reason for his entourage. Using a trick learned from the shadows Be'lakor's right hand reached back. Without looking back he cast the incarnation, draining the life and indeed very souls of the cultists, their magus and even the emissary, for what true value did an individual mortal have to a would-be god? It was fuel for the burning inferno that was the daemons own soul. With a shockwave of malevolent energy the daemon disintegrated the dozens of ice spawn poised to strike. Ice shards hit the stone walls with such force that they sunk deep into them. 

However, moments later the ice reversed and reformed on top of the great flame, a contradiction only possible with the power of magic. From its depths emerged a towering man with a wolfskin helm and flowing beard. Even in stature to the Daemon Prince, the god of ice formed a great sword between his hands. Be'lakor smirked, knowing that although no immortal could truly wield the full forces of the Aethery in the mortal realms, seeing Ulric's flesh form still provided an indication of the force available in the Other realm. It was significantly reduced. 

Of course, the knowledge of Be'lakor's own reduction did not even cross his mind. Pride could be a blinding force. 

With speed beyond his own mortal worshipers, the sword of Ice crossed with Belakor's blade of shadow. 

"You think I do not see through this feint, filth?"

Ulric leaned closer, until his weatherworn face was just a foot from Be'lakor's. 

" I know about the vermin you hired to steal the godgate beneath me. They are being ....dealt with, even now. "  
\-------------

Slaves, trapped between their own masses and the otherworldly lupine forms that had suddenly manifested in their mists, screeched and cried as great forms of ice tore through furred flesh with incredible speed. In desperation, they fought back with frothing strength however their desperate blows seemed only to fade through or, for the more corporal ones, leave no dent whatsoever. As the slaves realized the fight was utterly hopeless and sought to retreat from whence they came, a team of Warpflame Throwers unleashed their deadly arsenal. Screeches turned to piteous cries as the flame charred scores of slaves to a crisp but not before melting eyes in their sockets and causing skin to run like melted grease. A worthwhile sacrifice, in the calculus of pitiless Skaven minds, for the trace elements of magical warpfire succeeded in doing what the slaves could not- destroying the mysterious ice wolves. Sneekblade grinned in triumph. 

It was premature. To Sneekblade’s astonished sight, the magical bindings in the wolves, though charred, flared again to life and swiftly, in a few eye blinks, the wolves of Ulric- even those most charred- began to swiftly reform. Realizing now that conventional victory was impossible Sneekblade sent the rest of the slaves in together with Moulder Beasts, ordered his Skyre teams to open fire, and then sent his deathrunners in for a classic snatch and grab. He needn’t have bothered with the last order, for the deathrunners – out of either a desire to impress their master or steal glory for themselves- were already creeping through the carnage. 

Yet they didn’t get far. One, climbing through the stalactites on the ceiling, had his hand frozen to one of the lesser icicles. As the skaven tried desperately to free himself, his feet were also frozen as ice rapidly spread across his lower limbs. Then, the tiny shards of ice above his belly grew rapidly, drilling agonizingly through the Eshin Agent. Another, weaving through the wolves with supernatural agility, slipped and skated as the floor rapidly turned to ice. The second Deathrunner was torn apart by the wolves even as he struggled to right himself, with the lupine beings seemingly now bothered by the slippery ground at all. 

Seeing as the regular stealth tactics were also not an option, Sneekblade mustered his magics to his being, drawing upon the teachings of the Far East. He would use Skitterleap, the most staple of Eshin spells, to teleport to the artifact, and then swiftly teleport back. The act of doing so would, of course, ensure the subsequent assassination of everyone else in this mission barring the deathrunners, for the existence of Clan Eshin sorcerers was a closely guarded secret, one only the highest echelons of the command were permitted to know…

However, right as he was about to cast the spell, his whiskers- the embodiment of his heightened instincts- twitched violently. On a whim, he switched the target of his spell, teleporting instead a nearby deathruhnner through the space. 

Or at least he tried too. At the last second something disrupted his spell, a gargantuan aethyric presence that dwarfed any he had ever encountered, even superseding the most learned of the Grey Seers or the Celestial magi. The Deathrunner did not manifest by the artifact, instead the unfortunate skaven was forcibly merged with the ice wall in a segregated mass of fur, limbs and frost. 

Against any mortal foe, Sneekblade would be confident to the point of arrogance. However, the Skaven was quickly beginning to expect his opponent here was not mortal….  
\-----------------------------

Shards of Ice exploded from the sword, tearing into the wings and face of the daemon prince. The Prince roared in agony and unleashed another shockwave of shadow energy. The ice-worn giant absorbed the energy, though with effort and grimacing. At points of the great form the Ice began to melt, or else grow a sickly grey. Still the god managed to form his ice-lips into a gruesome imitation of a smile 

"In the time before time your true creators entrusted to me the artifact and I have never betrayed that charge! Neither you nor your cowardly vermin nor groveling cultists will ever steal it!" 

Screaming hate and spite the sword of shadow clashed with its icy counterpart unleashing otherworldly sparks that could sear souls. Then, the blade went through its frozen counterpart, phasing rather than breaking through. Corporality returned right as it entered the god's arm. 

Snarling in pain and rage, the wolf-god punched the daemon prince with the raw elemental force of an avalanche. Be'lakor was sent crashing into the opposite cave wall, the impact powerful enough to create a small crater. Ulric didn't let the prince recover. Dozens of tons of Ice crashed against the Daemon's form, crushing one of the Daemon's wings and causing another bellow of pain. 

"Look at you! I may be a shadow of my former glory but you are even less! You’re a Shadow's shadow, a forgotten prince turned into the lowliest pauper!" 

Belakor's incorporeal claws raked Ulric's face, scoring yard deep gashes. Ulric's brutal responsive backhand dazed the Daemon Prince and the ice sword driven into the daemonic gut caused him to scream.The cry was cut off as the giant's gnarled hand closed violently around the daemon's neck. At the giant's weathered command the wounds began to freeze . 

"I may no longer have the ability to destroy you utterly, filth, but I can freeze you in the coldest ice in existence! You will thaw for the rest of eternity! "

The ice began to spread rapidly now, the daemon's torso now encased in it. Be'lakor found himself utterly unable to move. Ulric's grim looked positively daemonic, the insane rictus of a dying god gifted a last opportunity of vengeance against a hated nemesis. 

"Your plot with the Vermin reeks of desperation. . The wolf can devour the rat just as well as anything else- your Skaven never had a fragment of a chance. "

Though much of his body had been made numb with pain and frozen by ice, Be'lakor still maintained control of his face. Features of pain morphed into that of triumph 

"I am aware….Old Wolf” Be’lakor spat, maliciously “….which is why I never relied on the Skaven for this task."

Ulric's blizzard worn features contorted into horror as, deep below, a living shadow enveloped the sanctified artifact of the Old Race.  
\-----

The Skaven and the Beastmen and the Cultists had been, from the beginning, a distraction. Be'lakor had even used himself to occupy Ulric's attention though it chafed the Daemon Prince's pride to do so. All so that his servant-in-shadow, using a realm that had been hereto unknown to either Ulric or Be'lakor, could steal the artifact.   
Momentarily, the Frost god broke his attention, stunned and panicked by the theft. This was a mistake, for the daemon that writhed in his grasp remained untamed. Quick as a viper, the daemon turned its free arm incorporeal and summoned the Sword of shadows to it. Then, just as the god turned back to Be'lakor, the blade cleaved through the distracted hand. As Ulric roared in horror Be'lakor gathered all his remaining might and unleashed a shockwave of shadowy magic so powerful that it slammed the god of winter into the opposite cavern wall, creating a several meter crater. 

Initially, Be'lakor had sought to both steal the artifact AND finish the Wolf god off to absorb his power. However arrogance gave way to evidence as the Daemon Prince was forced to hatefully acknowledge that the Wolf God's power, though diminished, was in no way as diminished as his own. So the Prince took incorporability and fled through the shadows, taking comfort in the howls of rage and despair from Ulric. Chuckling slightly, the Daemon Prince fled through the Pathways of the Old Ones, to rendezvous with his Servant in Shadow in Norsca. The remaining Skaven, too, also made their hasty escape as the Winter God’s cries of rage howled like the wind of the bitterest blizzard.   
\----

Meanwhile, the Elector Count of Middenheim had grown tired of the attempted siege of the city. With his magical scouts reporting no evidence of an ambush, the elector count prepared to match out to do battle. He needn't have been worried for Khazrak had no intention of fighting on an open field nor breaking his own army on the Empire's most fortified citadel. Moreover, he could tell, via his new shaman Malagor, that the Daemon Prince had not fulfilled his end of the bargain. The Light of Ulric still shined bright over the city and without that light extinguished the prospect of seizing the city, always improbable with the greatest of armies, was now impossible. 

Still he had struck fear into the hearts of man today, and embarrassed Todbringer by sacrificing scores of his citizens on the pathways to his own capital. Khazrak knew that most men were like the cattle they lorded over, needing protection from the lords and gods that ruled them. They were weak, like sheep before a slaughter, with only a few Wolves such as Todbringer among them. Motivated by their fear Khazrak knew there would be many questions tonight about whether their one eyed count could truly offer protection. Todbringer's star would be diminished and he would be that much more determined to avenge himself on Khazrak. 

Of course, what Khazrak did not know at the time was that he would face his own leadership questions, even challenges tonight. For the Skaven never offered their services for free and though Be'lakor had haggled their services down greatly through sheer fear even he knew that, to ensure Skaven would actually perform their task (or most likely perform their task) they needed to be offered something tangible. And so Be'lakor had bribed them- by offering the vermin the location of every Beastmen sacred shine around- many of which were bristling with Warpstone- and with the promise that Khazrak's horde would be too preoccupied to properly respond in defense. Unlike his promise to the Beastmen, this one was kept as the Braylord would soon find out, much to his braying rage and oaths of vengeance.   
\-----

Meanwhile the Daemon Prince stepped back through the veil of reality, having narrowly evaded many of the gloating daemons that he had once led to innumerable victories across the cosmos. There would be legendary reckonings to be had, one day. 

As Be'lakor looked around at the silent, frozen and, most of all, unoccupied meeting space his fury, already red hot, rose to literally boil whole yards around him. It seemed that one of those reckonings would happen sooner rather than later.   
\----

 

Hundreds of miles away, along the northern edge of Norsca, of the rebellious shadow-thing pulled from its insubstantial cloak a eternally swirling orb. Symbols, written in a long forgotten language by long dead hands, glowed bright gold against the shadow's pitch-black frame. It understood many of the symbols, for these were words of magical power which the daemons had long since bastardized and inspired in equal measure. Chanting words of power not uttered in centuries, the Shadow-Creature began to open the portal. 

Had the shadow wished it, the world would have died then and there. By opening a third portal to the realm of Chaos it would have flooded the world with so much raw Chaos that the Great Vortex would have been hopelessly overwhelmed and those it protected would be thrown to the nightmares that waited, longingly, for them. 

Yet in this one respect the shadow had been true to its alliance with Be'lakor. Neither it, nor its True Masters, sought the destruction of this world. Unlike Be'lakor, however, It did not seek to hold the world hostage to regain the blessings of the gods(like they would sincerely follow through with the request, anyway). 

Faster and faster, the orb began to spin. Reality was torn, sundered and then reopened. Through a gap in the world, at first no larger than a fist, then expanding to that of man, an ogre, a mammoth, and then larger still. Another reality, whose environment and geography were vastly different from the frozen tundra, slowly materialized into being. 

The shadow was roughly a featureless mass, distinguished only by the two glowing orbs that were its eyes. Yet even without a mouth to smile the triumph was palpable nonetheless. In a single act it had opened up paths and possibilities that not even the great Changer of Ways could foresee. Worlds would be bound together. The dying rot of this corpse-world would no longer just be an issue of this planet's inhabitants but another burden forced upon a far greater world, a world that had withstood everything thrown against it: Azeroth.


	2. The Tomb of Sargeras

Cold, Dark and Silent. Three small words described that which encompassed the overwhelming majority of the universe. A great, dark, fathomless ocean in which bright flotsam, some of which dated from the dawn of creation, drifted, flickered and danced throughout. This luminous cosmic debris blazed brightly across the cosmos, driving away the shadows that dwelt around them and shining like a brilliant beacon across all of reality. At times the great lights would flicker and die, folding into a hole so dark and black that no light could escape. At others, stars would form and then emerge from the dark, providing a guiding light that could pierce through the void. 

In between this confrontation of prime elemental powers, life formed on the planets orbiting these great suns. To the mortal mind, the light brought warmth, direction, clarity and, ultimately, life while the dark brought despair, coldness and death. Yet no few theorists pointed out that while the light may bring life, it was also blinding, stiffing and devoid of privacy, its light ever shining. The dark, they said, obscured the too-revealing light and provides privacy, contemplation, choice and, ultimately, freedom. The truth remained elusive to both sides, for neither the brightest light nor darkest darkness could manifest in the physical realm- at least not yet. Few within the Great Dark Beyond knew of the monsters that hid in the deepest dark or the entities that existed within the blinding light. 

The inhabitants of the Twisting Nether, however, were well aware that existence rested on the cornerstone of the light and shadow conflict. Though their own realm was more attuned to the eternal clash than physical reality, mortal universes too were formed by the event. However the veil between the light and shadow realms was far thinner in the Nether than in physical reality, resulting in much greater conflict. Driven to emotional extremes by endless elemental war the inhabitants of the Twisting Nether, daemons, sought an outlet for their own destructive desires. Always able to manifest easier with the mortal realm than the elementals, these daemons inflicted untold atrocities upon the inhabitants of the Great Dark Beyond. 

At first uncoordinated, the denizens of the Nether were nevertheless able to corrupt or destroy millions of mortal civilizations and races across reality. Gifted with potent magical powers and effective immortality (for they could not die, under normal circumstances, in physical reality) few mortal civilizations were able to repel these invaders from the Other Realm. For a time only the greatest civilizations, together with a god-race known as the titans, were capable of repulsing the daemons; though the process was marred by the ability of the daemons to come back again and again. Only the extreme disunity; the petty, fractious nature of daemonkind prevented worse damage to the physical realm. 

All that changed when Sargeras, the champion of the Titans, betrayed his ilk. Fearful of the shadow and deeming the universe fundamentally flawed, the fallen titan broke Maradum, the vast dimensional prison which contained countless daemons captured by the titans. He then unified these daemons, along with many of those in the Nether, into a vast crusade. He would burn all of reality to ash, so that the shadow could not corrupt it. In a cataclysmic series of battles felt across the universe, the first blows of this Burning Crusade obliterated the Titan Pantheon who had sought to stop their errant brother... 

Bereft of their greatest defenders, the mortal realms were left vulnerable to the onslaught of daemonkind. Originally, only the lack of unifying leadership- other than the fallen titan at the top- prevented the full mobilization of the crusade, for Sargeras could hardly be everywhere at once, even when he split his soul into smaller but still impossibly powerful 'Avatars'. In frustration, Sargeras spent his efforts corrupting countless mortal species until he at last encountered the Eredar. Magically proficient, wise and technologically advanced, the Eredar- led themselves by the duo Kil'Jaden and Archimonde- would be the commanders of the crusade. If Sargeras was a god then the pair of Eredar would be his prophets. 

Realities burned as the infinite legions assaulted uncountable planets across all possible timelines. Against a numberless foe respawning endlessly, no mortal civilization could withstand the onslaught. Primitive and advanced civilizations alike were immolated like dry leaves before the flame. A few, impossibly, managed to repel the initial invasion. Always, the daemons returned years later, having adapted to whatever tactic defeated them before. 

The carnage only escalated as the masters of light and shadow also crossed over to the mortal universes in ever greater number. It is a great irony that the vast influx of daemonic fel magic into physical reality made it all the more easy for the forces of shadow and light to cross, thus giving them easier access to the mortals they both sought to feed on and convert. The daemonic purge whose primary purpose was to deny the mortal realm to the prime elements served to provide an opening for said elements onto the plane- though the most powerful lords of light and shadow were still unable to manifest. 

Caught between the tri-threats of the prime elements and all destroying daemonic horde, life stood no chance. Across the multiverse worlds were conceived by action made moments before and then brutally destroyed moments later. Countless Worlds that barely survived the Burning Legion were driven to madness by the whispers of the void or else ‘embraced’ into the light’s fold- willingly or otherwise. In the whole of the multiverse there was only one planet-and, specifically, one version of said planet- that truly defied the legion and which seized the lusting eyes of all three factions. 

Azeroth. 

The only planet in existence which had defeated multiple Legion invasions and foiled hundreds of Legion plots over the preceding ten millennia. Through the uncanny strength of its mortal champions Azeroth still stood on top of the smoldering corpses of those that had attempted to conquer it over the years. The light and the shadow were both present in the world and used widely by the mortals. However, these mortals subverted the goals of these prime elements and entered into cooperation with one another, if an uneasy one. 

The uncanny ability of these mortals to achieve success over cosmic forces- and not just on their home world- threatened to change the unsustainable status quo of reality. Their power, though minuscule compared to the total potential of their opponents, nevertheless blazed bright across the cosmos. Even now, on a planet their own in a universe that was not their own, these mortals achieved an impossible victory; Archimonde, the Defiler, the Left Hand of Sargeras, lay dead, shattered by Azerothi hands forever. 

However, even as the champions of Azeroth and the saved inhabitants of a formerly doomed world celebrated, they remained unaware of the greater cosmic struggle or the new powers that would soon enter. Only one among that task force had any vague awareness of the state of the greater universe: Khadgar.

 

Even as he stood triumphant over the smoldering corpse of Archimonde the Defiler, Khadgar could feel no sense of triumph. When he was an apprentice of Medvih he had dived deep into the secret journals of his master and had an inkling, though not an approximation, of the Legion's true scale. He knew that the death of a daemon lord, even one as important as the Defiler, would not impact the Legion's operations. Only the fall of Sargeras could do that and, unfortunately, both he and the cunning Kil'Jaden had yet to reveal their hands. 

Yrel, the champion and new leader of this universe's Draenei, could see that even if there other allies could not. The Draenei always knew for their war with their own fallen kin, the Eredar, had spanned entire aeons. Thus when Khadgar told her of his theories her face hardened into a mask of determination rather than of weariness. "If you ever need us, we will be here."

It was a promise, one she intended to keep. Khadgar could see it in her eyes. He also knew that the honor of Durotan would never allow him to reject a call for help from one who had provided so much aid, and thus the Frostwolves- along with the remnants of many tribes who had come to ally with him- would come. Turning to regard one more figure, he frowned. Grommash Hellscream had been their initial enemy, only to be replaced after he was dethroned by Gul'dan, who himself was backed by the Burning Legion. In truth Khadgar trusted the father of Garrosh, who was as bloodthirsty as his son, little. Yet the chieftain’s hatred of demonkind could not be denied nor could the respect Grommash still commanded among the former Iron Horde. Thus, Khadgar thought that he could be relied upon to fight the Legion when they returned. 

The Champions of Draenor still had many challenges before them. The remnants of Kilrog's fel-corrupted tribe needed to be rooted out of Taanan, the Breakers-Fungals needed to be tamed, and the Arakkoa were still struggling with how to integrate a society segregated by thousands of years of hatred and mistrust. Even those challenges paled in comparison to the likely leadership squabbles between Grommash and Durotan - though, if fighting broke out, Khadgar suspected Durotan would have the aid of both the Arakkoa and Draenei. Alas those were the problems of Draenor alone right now. While a few tradesmen and settlers from Azeroth might stay behind, their military forces and adventurers would be needed back on Azeroth as Khadgar was positive that was the Burning Legion's next target. 

However, first Khadgar had another objective. Gul'dan was still out there. Though the Archmage knew that Gul'dan was but a pawn in the grand scheme of things, the orc warlock had proven incredibly dangerous and the Archmage had no doubt that, if left unchecked, he would bring yet more sorrow. Fortunately, the warlock had bled heavily in the last battle, blood which would retain the faintest essence of the orc's corrupted soul. Moreover, the Archmage had a lead on the source of Gul’dan’s staff which might help triangulate the warlock’s location further. And with that, Khadgar could track him across the scope of the entire planet- or beyond, if necessary. 

 

As Khadgar and the otherworldly champions left the planet, the native Draenei and Orcs were left to rebuild their shattered world. 

The world quaked. The nominal wars of mortals, no matter how explosively charged, would normally mean little to such an entity but, in their greed for victory, the Iron Horde had unleashed far greater horrors than their kind could create. Already the taint of Fel- the very essence of ruin- had sunk its claws deep into the planet and though its normal daemonic purveyors were gone (for now) the wound had yet to be healed. 

A few Azerothian allies had stayed, with full knowledge that the Bronze Dragonflight would wedge the way shut after the last of the Azerothian champions exited the realm. This they did selflessly, out of love for this planet or its inhabitants (to some, a very personal love), or selfishly, such as the goblin port down that foresaw new opportunities outside of the ruling cartel’s sphere of influence. Both acknowledged the dire threat of Fel and spoke of planets condemned to a slow death from its insidious influence. Indeed, they spoke of another Draenor in another universe that died choking on its own corrupted lifeblood. 

The remaining Kaldorei and Tauren druids, vowing to honor those of the Draenei who had fought so valiantly alongside them, were even now trying to heal Tanaan Jungle, though even they acknowledged the depressing odds of such an endeavor. After all, the Cenarion Circle itself had tried for years to heal the tainted land known as Felwood and as of the present they had only met mixed success. 

The Draenei were nothing if not determined though, for recent events had proven their fortitude and strength. They had weathered the storm of the Iron Horde and Legion both and, in their eyes, paid the greatest contribution towards the ultimate victory. Oh they freely conceded the aid of Azeroth had been incredibly instrumental, and without their support victory would not have been possible, but in their eyes the other factions of Draenor had only battled the Iron Horde on periphery or worse, been a part of it. After all, with the exception of one invasion to wipe out the Frostwolves of Frostridge it was the Draenei controlled settlements of Shattarath, Auchindon, Telmor, Telaar and the Black Temple, among others, that had dominated Iron Horde and Legion’s campaigning. 

Yet, their determination was tempered by uncertainty. For the first time in over 30,000 years, they were bereft of the moral guidance of the Prophet Velen, who had led their people even before the coming of Sargeras. With his demise the most influential source of continuity from Old Argus, the only figure who could remember with crystal clarity that golden age of the Eredar, was gone. In lesser civilizations, Velen would have been considered a god and his death treated like an apocalyptic event. Only Velen’s decision to delegate most secular authority to the Exarchs prevented a total catastrophe; at least the government still worked. 

However, spiritual leaders they were not and the exarchs were helpless to calm their people’s anguish. Or, at least, none of the older generations of exarchs could. 

Into this light stepped their newest exarch: Yrel. In the span of a few months she had risen from a novice priestess to a legend that seemed straight from the most ancient mythos. On her brow she carried the same symbol that Velen once possessed, a powerful relic handed down by the prophet himself. Her mastery and devotion to the light could not be denied by even the most hardened sceptic. Nor, could her knowledge of the battlefield and campaign, for Yrel had worked closely with the Alliance commander to ensure victory on all fronts. 

Sought after to manage both her people’s secular and spiritual needs, not since Prophet Velen’s flight from Argus did a Draenei have so much weight on their shoulders. Indeed, the pressure on her may have been greater, for Velen at least had his visions and millennia of prior leadership to draw from, while Yrel only had newfound glory and a deep devotion to the Light. 

Still, she took to the challenge with noteworthy optimism and enthusiasm inspired, in part, by her adventures and experiences with the Outlanders. Their coalitions had provided inspiration for Yrel to try the same. Already she had broached the idea of a summit to her fellow exarchs, a summit that she hoped would bring unity to all the races of the world. 

Such cooperation would be needed for the challenges ahead, both to save their world and for the final battle against the Burning Legion. It was a fight she looked forward to having soon, for the entire history of her people since the exile from Argus had been preparing themselves for that final campaign. 

And, light willing, she would do battle alongside the greatest heroes and champions reality had ever produced!

2 months later, on Azeroth...

At long last, guided by his master's will, Gul'dan had arrived on the Broken Isles. The journey had not been easy, even with a guiding hand. Gul'dan had several run-ins with the mage pursuers of the Kirin Tor. Arcane and fel clashed in dazzling displays that illuminated the barren landscape Gul'dan had spent most of the time crossing. For the most part, they were once sided affairs as the brave but doomed Kirin Tor magus was outmatched by the greatest of mortal warlocks. There were only a few- Khadgar and the sorceress Jaina Proudmoore standing chief among them- who could match the orc in the contest of magical strength. 

He had avoided the Proudmoore woman at the pass over Redbridge, though only barely. Knowing that the sorceress could track him through the Nether, Kil'Jaden had bade his apprentice to open a portal to a new realm that seemed defined by shadow, loneliness and despair that had, to the orc, seemed an even less welcoming than Azeroth. Frantic whispers and mad laughter battered his mind ceaselessly and even Kil'Jaden, whose physical presence was dimensions away, seemed uncharacteristically wary. Though no physical presence ever manifested it seemed to Gul'dan that the very shadows themselves had dogged his every step. It was with incredible relief that he had emerged by the sea- near what Kil'Jaden called Westfall- and stolen aboard a local merchant vessel. The crew had proven no match for the other world's mightiest warlock. He had used the adult's souls as nourishment for his own power while the children served as human shields for when the Kirin Tor did finally catch up. 

After several days of grueling fighting that ended with shrill screams and a fel-fiery explosion, Gul'dan at last arrived at the Broken Isles. His power nearly depleted from the exhaustive journey, the warlock might have perished right there had not a foolish nightfallen, desperate for mana replenishment, attempted to sap the remaining life from Gul'dans veins. The Nightfallen's body, and those of his nearby brethren, proved to be excellent nourishment. The Warlock would have preferred to stop and rest however his master's ringing voice demanded he move forward. 

And so Gul'dan moved, slowly, inexorably, to his final destination, pursued doggedly by Khadgar and the newly arrived Kal'dorei Wardens. The warlock warred with the overwhelming desire to kill his pursuers and his benefactor's desire for caution. Distrust and frustration were rife between them. From Kil'Jaden distrust, as the demon lord laid the death of his brother Archimonde at the failures of the orc warlock. However, more significantly (for in truth Kil'Jaden felt a sort of relief at Archimonde's death, for Archimonde had ever been Kil'Jaden's chief rival) Gul'dan had betrayed Kil'Jaden himself all those years ago when the orc had sought to claim the power of the Tomb of Sargeras for himself. 

Likewise, Gul'dan grew increasingly frustrated as the journey continued. His master's distrust grated upon him as the demon lord constrained his every action. Even the slightest acts of resistance brought about threats to cut Gul'dan off from demonic aid- which was essentially a death threat, as Gul'dan knew well how many on this planet wanted to kill him. However, perhaps the most grating aspect was Archimonde's refusal to acknowledge that the Gul'dan who died on this world wasn't him! 

How was he, an Orc Warlock whose association with Kil'jaden was relatively new and who had only just arrived on Azeroth within two months, supposed to answer for the 'crimes' of a Gul'dan who he had never met, crimes which he had never committed. The sins of an alternate self should not reflect across realities! How could the demon not see that? If the multiverse was, as the demon said, infinite than an infinite number of Gul'dans- hell an infinite number of Kil'jaden's- should exist. However, when Gul'dan mentioned this his mentor told the acolyte that he 'had the mind and ignorance of a child, like the rest of mortal kind.'

Gul'dan grumbled at this but, after two months of the same argument, was slowly coming to the conclusion that perhaps the problem wasn't that Kil'jaden was unwilling to differentiate between universes- he was unable too. Perhaps there was something to demonic psychology that made the distinction impossible. Did multiple versions of the Twisting Nether exist? 

The ruminations were interrupted by Kil'jaden's urgent command- move. The window to open the portal was closing- Khadgar was closing in on his position, having no doubt guessed his intention. Gul'dan urgently broke through the wards of the underground tomb as fast as he could, hastily setting magical traps behind him as he did so. Though an apprentice mage cautious enough could evade them with ease Gul'dan knew that, for all of Khadgar’s intelligence and power, the man was one of the most reckless individuals he ever met, exceeded only by the cursed Hellscreams. With luck, Khadgar would seriously injure himself on his way to confront Gul'dan. 

The final wards, set by a powerful wizard long ago, proved difficult to crack. Nonetheless they were clearly century’s old- and someone had given a shot at weakening them before he got here. Gul'dan avoided mentioning this out loud, however, as he wanted to avoid his master lecturing him on the Other Gul'dan's treachery. The fact was clear that someone had already done much of the work...

A bolt of arcane energy- powerful and controlled, more potent and beyond the capabilities of even a Gorian Magi-king- slammed into his back, the wards there only just serving to protect the Orc Warlock. Khadgar had arrived, and seemingly unharmed, too. 

Snarling, Gul'dan turned his attention to the intruder. In a series of muttered curses, he unleashed a torrent of felfire meteors. The mage's arcane barrier proved sufficient at holding back the fel and Khadgar countered with a barrage of ice shards, three feet long and as sharp as gronnling fangs, that forced Gul'dan behind cover. There opening salvo performed, the pair weaved and maneuvered around each other, firing a dizzying variety of spells

Gul'dan, stop this. 

Flabbergasted, enraged beyond measure, the warlock questioned the Eredar Lord's command in disbelief, only to receive threats of de-powerment in response. When finally pressed, Kil'Jaden stated that the Legion had plans with Khadgar as much as with Gul'dan. This did nothing to calm the orc warlock. Couldn't the demon lord see that, if Khadgar wasn't dealt with, the portal wouldn't be opened and thus not one of demon's plans would come to fruition? 

Gul'dan's pleas had no effect. Kil'Jaden made it clear his orders were a demand and not a suggestion. If Gul'dan persisted, he would be cut off from the Legion's power. Furious, the warlock nevertheless hid in the shadows as Khadgar sent both taunts and then, when that failed to flush Gul'dan out, a legion of arcane elementals to search every nook and cranny of the tomb. Gul'dan knew he had little time - doubtlessly, one of Khadgar's allies would eventually come. Gul'dan needed to incapacitate the mage. Or maybe, another solution was necessary. Growing up, he had watched plenty of orcs deal more damage than they intended to their fellows in the duels that so defined their tribal kind. Accidents happened after all; surely Kil'Jaden would understand this....

Gul'Dan nearly screamed in pain the second his fel torrent spell- hot enough to melt the stone columns of this tomb- was unleashed. Wordlessly, Kil'Jaden saw through Gul'Dan's guile and punished accordingly. Moreover, the mage still stood as his wards had been more than proficient in dealing with the blast. Cursing under his breath, Gul'dan retreated back in the shadows, using fel and shadow magic to cover his steps. Silently, he continued unbinding the seals that kept the demonic portal in place. 

The mage continued his search, each second narrowing the range of possible locations. It would not take him too much longer to uncover the warlock. Still, the mage was uneasy. Gul'dan was clearly receiving mental directions from somewhere else and Khadgar feared he knew exactly who was supplying that direction. Khadgar needed Gul'dan's mind elsewhere. Thus, he told the most tantalizing and distracting story he knew- the story of what happened to this universes' Gul'dan. 

Gul'dan quickly realized Khadgar's intent and pressed on, though a part of him paid close attention to the tale. His unbinding was close to completion- just a few more-

Khadgar noticed and, through spell trace, found Gul'dan's exact location. The fury of Khadgar's sudden arcane assault nearly broke Gul'dan's fel shield. Even with the protection, Gul'dan was still thrown bodily against the wall. As Gul'dan recovered and Khadgar conjured yet another powerful spell, Kil'Jaden's frantic orders rang, telepathically, in his skull: kill him! 

My, my, how quickly opinions changed. 

Gul'dan mustered a burst of fel explosion that tore through layers and layers of stone, but which narrowly failed to break open Khadgar's shield. Still, the mage staggered under the intensity of the blast. As Gul'dan conjured another such blast a portal tore through reality a dozen feet above his head, while another appeared on the ground many meters in front of him, right beneath a large falling stalactite... 

Narrowly he avoided being crushed. The orc warlock looked up and snarled, eager to destroy his rival for good. 

The two dueled, evenly, across the breadth of the tomb. Fel fire, hot enough to melt steel into liquid, failed to burn through Khadgar's enchanted ice block. Bolts of arcane, powerful enough to blast open a castle gate, were absorbed into Gul'dan's palm. The magical forces of order and disorder clashed in a perpetual stalemate, seemingly capable of going on forever. 

Gul'dan knew he could not. Sooner or later, one of Khadgar's allies would come and the balance would be altered. Already he could sense another presence, though faint, enter the tomb. Or the mage would succeed in destabilizing the tomb enough to where it would collapse. Whatever the case, time was short. Silently, under his breath, Gul'dan pleaded to Kil'Jaden for more power even as Khadgar continued the rest of his tale in between spells. 

The demon lord was resistant, accusing Gul'dan of plotting betrayal just like 'he had before'. Gul'dan was at wit's end with his master's reasoning. Nothing Gul'dan said seemed to sway the demon lord. So Gul'dan gave an ultimatum of his own- empower him now or have the Burning Legion's plans fall into ruin. 

Kil'jaden was silent for a moment, leaving Gul'dan to fear that his master had abandoned him, just as Gul'dan barely weathered a firestorm from Khadgar. Then, an influx of power came to the warlock as Gul'dan felt his veins widen from sheer influx of energy. Laughing madly, the warlock gathered his emboldened might for an all-powerful spell against the mage. But then the mage finished his tale. 

Through his words, Khadgar dealt Gul'dan a more grievous wound than any of his spells had managed to inflict so far. Gul'dan had always assumed that his other-self had died at the hands of the Alliance or Horde, as so many other prominent orcs of Draenor had. Khadgar cast aside that illusion and revealed that the Other Gul'dan fell not from the swords of the Alliance or the axes of the Horde, but to the claws of demons.

Could it really be true? Did Kil'Jaden, despite his continual promises of granting Gul'dan immense power in return for service, really just view Gul'dan as nothing more than a useful pawn, to be discarded at will? Could he view Gul'dan in the same expendable fashion that Gul'dan viewed his own Shadow Council? As much as Gul'dan wanted to deny Khadgar's words, he somehow knew, instinctively, that his rival was telling the truth. Still, one enemy at a time....

With a twitch of his hand, Gul'dan unleashed his now empowered assault. A tsunami of Fel fire flooded the room towards the mage. Khadgar was surprised, fearful, not expecting the sudden burst of power. He turned into a block of ice. To Gul'dan's frustration, he could not break this fortification. Had Khadgar spread his arcane magic thin for a wide shield, the magic would have easily crumbled but here, condensed, the fortification was taking an obscene amount of effort to even crack!

So, instead, he hurled Khadgar beyond the entrance to the chamber and collapsed it on top of the mage for good measure. If the mage survived, he would be dealt with later. Now, for a more powerful foe. As Kil'jaden, pleased with victory, ordered Gul'dan to return the borrowed power and use it to break the final seal, opening the demon portal, Gul'dan refused. 

Bitter recriminations flew out of the Orc's mouth as he accused the demon lord of viewing Gul'dan as nothing more than a pawn and for making false promises, stating that Kil'jaden would see fate repeat itself upon him. Kil'Jaden made no denials regarding other Gul'dan's fate (though he continued to fail to make the distinction between the two, irritating the orc immensely). Instead, Kil'jaden pointed out the other Gul'dan's betrayal, how the orc had sabotaged the Horde's victory in the second war in his own pursuit of power and thus foiled the plans of Sargeras himself! Gul'dan scoffed at this- what weight did the word of demons have, much less one who is literally known as the ‘Deceiver’! Arrogantly, Gul'dan claimed that he would use this borrowed power to seize control of Azeroth and then enslave Kil'Jaden himself. He would be ruler of all and servant of none.

Kil'Jaden brushed off the threat, easily. What could the power of a world compare to the multiversal might of the Legion? Instead, Kil'Jaden explained that everyone had a master - even him, Kil'Jaden, and though Gul'dan would always serve the demon lord, he would be master of uncounted worlds under the Legion’s command. Growing weary of the conversation, Kil'Jaden stated in his parting words that he had never lied to the orc warlock and had always viewed him as a uniquely powerful individual. Now was the time for Gul'dan to choose between the unlimited power of the Legion or betrayal once more, to suffer the same fate as other Gul'dan if the mortals of this world did not deal with him first. Kil'Jaden then broke the connection, leaving the orc to simmer in its silence. 

Not for long, however. Khadgar had returned and this time, brought a friend. Gul'dan recognized her as Maiev Shadowsong, the head Warden. Cordana had always spoken of her in incredibly fearful tones. It was no matter now, however, for Gul'dan knew he was more powerful than them both. 

With a contemptuous wave of his hand, he dismissed Khadgar's conjured blizzard and then, with a lazy muttered incarnation, unleashed a bolt so powerful that Khadgar's arcane shield broke entirely and the mage was forced to teleport out of the way. Maiev teleported behind for a decapitating strike only to be forced to retreat after Gul'dan summoned a wall of fel flame without a so much as a glance behind him. Gul’dan chuckled to himself; his foes were horribly outmatched. 

And yet... they did not stop. No matter how pitiful their attacks, they did not stop. Gul'dan actually began to put effort into his assaults, seeking to incinerate them into ash. And yet even though his blows were only barely avoided, even though defenses shattered before his might, even though the pair sustained wounds....they did not stop. Gul'dan’s breath stopped as he contemplated not the pair before him but the others. Them. The champions of Azeroth. 

Gul'dan remembered watching in awe as those champions led what every spy had told him was only a portion of Azeroth's might to unequalled victory over the Iron Horde. He remembered the sacking of Goria, the destruction of the Blackrock clan. How the unified force of Iron Horde backed up by impossible technology had crumbled like matchsticks before the flame. How even the intervention of the Legion, after Gul'dan took over the Iron Horde, had done nothing to change the tide. Those champions had smashed into Gul'dan's mighty citadel and then, in a cataclysmic battle, slew a mighty lord of the Burning Legion- Archimonde- himself. 

Genuine horror spread through the orc's mind as contemplated beings far more tenacious than the Archmage before him. And there were uncounted thousands of them on Draenor- who knew how many on Azeroth, their home world. In a panic he asked the Archmage and Warden, still struggling against his assault, why they did not just give up? They were utterly outmatched in power. His questions were only met with gestures and words of defiance. They could die- indeed they probably would die- but they would never stop fighting. 

Gul'dan saw that he stood at a fork in the path. He could have his freedom, his mastery, even his revenge to an extent. Yet, alone, he would eventually fall, his most prized possessions to be used as disposable trinkets by his slayers. Or he could survive, with an army at his back, but without the freedom he so desired. 

It was at that moment he made his choice. He closed his eyes. With a groan, Gul'dan let his wondrous power slip from his grasp. Kil'jaeden seized it and sent it straight into the tomb. The walls glowed ever brighter, rivaling the midday sun. Gul'dan felt a keen sense of loss. All that power, gone. The tomb was not simply using it; it was consuming it. Terrible sounds, magnificent sounds, deafening sounds, they heralded the creation of a bridge that joined two worlds. Suddenly the way was open. Air rushed from another plane of existence, roaring through the chamber at hurricane speeds. Khadgar and Maiev dropped to the floor, holding on.

And then he heard that familiar voice.

Well Done, Guldan. You did indeed have the vision I-

Kil'Jaden paused, and for the first time, Gul'dan detected confusion, doubt, and even fear through their mental link. The portal's composition simmered, the reality behind it altering in shadows. Gul'dan, attuned to the feeling of magic, felt it change from familiar fel to a mixture of the magic Gul'dan had detected on Cho'gall and...something else. Something, wilder. 

Air rushed into the tomb, colder air yet thick with that strange magic. The portal began to open once again, revealing a region of ice. 

“Master, what is happening?”

The portal has been compromised. Someone else controls its energies. 

But who was powerful enough to seize the magic of Kil'Jaden, the mightiest demon lord of the Burning Legion? Gul'dan turned questionably - and a little fearfully-towards Khadgar. Had he underestimated the Archmage's power so drastically? But the Archmage and his companion were still struggling against the winds, their faces- or at least Khadgar's visible one- a mask of confusion. 

And then Gul'dan felt it. A power reached through the portal, different yet strangely familiar, and seized the warlock. Then, before Gul'dan could muster the power to protest, he was bodily cast through an alternate reality and disappeared from sight. 

Behind him, Khadgar and Maiev recovered and stood once more. They turned to each other in wordless uncertainty, neither knowing what to make of the sudden turn of events. However, instinctively, both knew that this change brought not only a lapse from the Legion invasion but also a new challenge, as had every portal before this one. The lords of Azeroth would have to be alerted to this new threat. 

 

===  
Thousands of miles away, in a distant land, Gul'dan awoke. 

His head pounded and he felt the residue of unknown magic all across his body. Yet he was alive, that much was sure. Aloud, he called Kil'Jaden by name, demanding answers only to be met with complete silence. The connection had been severed, for now. 

Quizzically, the orc held out his hand. With an assertion of will, fel fire poured into it, though with more difficulty than on Azeroth or Draenor. Still, Gul'dan breathed a sigh of relief- at least he had not lost that. 

It was then Gul'dan registered commotion in the distance. Moving silently through fields of unknown grain, Gul'dan cautiously crept up a nearby hill. Muttering words he himself had invented, he conjured up one of his mystical eyes and sent it a dozen meters above the hillside. 

Gul'dan transferred the eye's sight to his own and recoiled before the sight. Before him were two armies of humans, larger than any he had ever seen, dressed in unfamiliar arms and armor, clashing over a vast plain. Some fought under the cloak of what Gul’Dan dimly recognized as a dragon, though more serpent-like than what his spies had transcribed to him. Others fought with a multitude of weapons but those stood out were singular blades, long and balanced in the manner of Burning Blade Blademasters. 

Gul’dan recoiled in a panic : Where had the portal taken him?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And that’s a wrap! 
> 
> To provide some background this is the first section of two concurrent stories. 
> 
> The first, Chronicles of Convergence, shall provide an overhead, third person omniscient viewpoint of the joining of worlds and the war, culture shock and geopolitical changes that result. The model I plan to adopt for this section is based on the narrative section of the Warhammer armybooks and Warcraft Chronicles. This model will capture the widest range of events however there is less emphasis on details. 
> 
> However, the second item, Tales of the Twin Legions, shall be told from the traditional novel format, meaning third person limited (though I might also experiment with this). These stories will tell details, sub-sections both featured in Chronicles such as the meeting of Beastlord and daemonlord, the subversion of Kil’Jaden’s plot and first contact, from the perspectives of those who lived them. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now, to address two things I think are going to mentioned based on my beta readers. 
> 
> If Ulric was not distracted by a duel with a bitter old enemy, if he was not distracted by directing his forces against the Skaven, watching Beastmen above, and all the stuff a god does in the warp (fending off incursions into their warp sphere of influence), if he was familiar with the realm the shadow-servant came from or had any inkling of either the thing or its home realm’s existence….than Ulric would have been able to stop the creature. As it was circumstances worked in the Shadow’s favor just this once. 
> 
> Clan Eshin assassins don’t typically lead, however, the old Eshin army list in Storm of Chaos does set up the possibility of a few individuals being capable of doing just that. Moreover, of all the great clans Clan Eshin is the least explored, as the home bases of Clan Skyre (Skavenblight), Pestilens (Lustria) and Moulder ( Hell Pit) are all well shown, while Eshin’s Nippon stronghold is only ever referred to in passing. Who knows what secret units the ninja rats have at their disposal…


End file.
